


12 Days of Wincestmas

by Lopsided_Whiskey_Grin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12 Days of Wincestmas, Angst, Blood, Blow Jobs in a Car, Bottom Dean, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Dean in Panties, First Kiss, Fluff, Kissing at Midnight, M/M, Mistletoe, Road Head, Seven Minutes In Heaven, Smut, Snowball Fight, Stanford Era, Stitches, Wincest - Freeform, Young Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5614960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lopsided_Whiskey_Grin/pseuds/Lopsided_Whiskey_Grin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These were my submissions to buttheyrebrothers for Tumblr's 12 days of Wincestmas story exchange over the Christmas holiday! You will notice a pattern with these stories: each chapter will be a short, individual ficlet and take place on Christmas day at some point in the boy’s lives and each will have something to do with the numbers 1-12 chronologically. Please enjoy and Happy Holidays!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buttheyrebrothers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttheyrebrothers/gifts).



Dean had meant this little surprise as something of a Christmas present for Sam, but it was also (a bit selfishly) a present for himself. It had been more three months since Sammy had started his first semester of college and Dean missed him, a _lot_. Not being able to see his little brother everyday was slowly killing him and so, after giving dad a bullshit story about some hunt he’d heard about in Arkansas, he took off for the long trip to Stanford.

Pulling up to the dorms early Christmas morning, Dean He was almost surprised to see how utterly deserted the campus was until he remembered all the other kids were probably home with their families over the break. His heart clenched painfully when he realized Sam was basically there alone. Shaking his head and clearing his throat, Dean climbed the stairs in the dorm hall he knew Sam was staying in, his pulse picking up speed with each flight he ascended. He couldn’t really explain why he suddenly felt so excited. It was just his brother. But it _wasn’t_ just his brother. It was Sammy, _his_ Sammy, his whole goddamn world. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him every waking moment, and in his dreams, and in every moment in between; and those thoughts were not always the most innocent of scenarios. He wanted Sammy, needed him, in every way imaginable. And that was exactly, _precisely_ , the reason he was so excited.

Knocking twice, Dean swallowed thickly, thinking of all the things he was going to say when Sam opened the door. But then Sammy was suddenly standing there, his shaggy hair mussed, his cheeks pink from sleep, his beautiful eyes wide with surprise. Dean couldn’t think of a word to say, all he could think of was how damn much he wanted to kiss him.

And so he did – Dean kissed Sammy for the very first time that Christmas morning long and slow, taking as much as he could and giving back more and felt overjoyed and complete and utterly whole when he felt Sam kiss him back just as hard.


	2. Day 2: All I want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth

Sam is six years old and he has just lost the second of his two front teeth on Christmas eve. Dean smiles, knowing he gets to play the tooth-fairy tonight since dad is going to be gone until the day after tomorrow, and helps his little brother put his tooth in a napkin that says “Motel 8” on it and tapes it up into a little package.

He watches Sammy put it under the pillow on the bed they share then tucks him in under the sheets and scratchy motel blanket. He gives Sammy a kiss on his forehead like he has done since he was littler than Sammy is now and he is suddenly struck with a song from his pre-school days from before mommy died when he glances out the window and sees snow start to fall.

“Want me to teach you a song?” Dean asks and Sammy nods his head very fast, grinning wide.

“Okay,” Dean says, looking at Sammy. He scooches under the covers beside his brother and uses his elbow to prop his head up on his hand. “I learnt this song a long time ago for a Christmas play, when you were still in mommy’s tummy. It goes like this:”

 _All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth_  
_My two front teeth_  
 _See my two front teeth_  
 _Gee, if I could only have my two front teeth_  
 _Then I could wish you, "Merry Christmas"_

_It seems so long since I could say_   
_"Sister, Susie sitting on a thistle!"_   
_Gosh, oh gee, how happy I'd be, if I could only whistle_

_All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth_   
_My two front teeth_   
_See my two front teeth_   
_Gee, if I could only have my two front teeth_   
_Then I could wish you, "Merry Christmas"!_

Sam is utterly delighted and gives Dean the biggest, non-toothiest, smile ever. It makes Dean feel warm and happy inside and he shuts off the light, telling Sam that Santa won’t come if Sammy doesn’t go to sleep fast. Dean is big enough to know that Santa really isn’t real and that all he has to give Sam tomorrow morning for a Christmas present is a box of Lucky Charms wrapped up in the Sunday comics, but he still wants Sammy to believe that magic is real. Dean falls asleep quickly, shortly after Sam drops off, dreaming like he does most nights, how life could be if they were all one big happy family and mommy was still alive. 

Sam must have woken up early the next morning before Dean because when Dean opens his eyes first thing he hears Sammy singing the song he taught him last night, in between mouthfuls of cereal while he watches Frosty the Snowman on TV. It’s cute at first and Dean actually sings along a couple times but then Sam goes on a kick and sings it over and over and _over_ again makes Dean wish he hadn’t ever taught it to him.

Dean loves his little brother, more than anything in the whole entire, wide, wide world. But can’t he stop singing that dumb song for just five minutes?!


	3. Day 3: Three State Lines

“Stop it,” Dean said gruffly, not even pulling his gaze from the windshield to glance in Sam’s direction.

Sam quickly looked away from Dean’s profile and out the passenger window to the streetlights flying by and the thick blanket of falling snow they were currently speeding through. “Stop what?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

Dean shook his head and let out a grunt, still not turning his head toward Sam. “Stop lookin’ at me like that.”

Sam bit back a smile and shot a glance back to Dean. “Like what, Dean? I’m not doing anything.”

Dean looked over at him, their eyes finally connecting for a moment before he focused back on driving. “Like you can’t wait to pull my jeans down and fuck me,” he said flatly, and Sam felt a thrill of arousal shoot down to his gut. “It’s not gonna happen tonight, Sammy. We’ve crossed over three goddamn state lines today and as soon as we get to a motel I’m going to bed. End of story. I’m fuckin’ tapped.”

“Fair enough,” Sam replied, shrugging his shoulders and looking back out the window. “But I wasn’t looking at you.”

Dean shook his head again and scoffed. Sam felt a little grin try to eek its way across his lips again and he covered his mouth with his fist, pretending to cough; he couldn’t help but jab his big brother a _little_ bit. Wasn’t that what little brothers were for?

But in all honesty, yes, he was looking at Dean like that. He could hardly keep his eyes off him this entire trip as they crossed from Denver to Nebraska to Iowa and finally to Newark, Illinois all in one day on the trail of a mobile Vamp nest. The sheer amount of hunts they’d been on this holiday season was getting damn ridiculous and now here it was the tail end of Christmas day and Sam couldn’t remember the last time they’d had sex that wasn’t a quick blow in a Kum and Go bathroom or a rushed mutual hand job in a motel shower. He was fucking hungry and the only thing that would satisfy him was Dean.

Pulling up to their room after Dean had paid the receptionist sitting behind a pane of Plexiglas with a bogus credit card, Sam had to shift in the passenger seat and readjust his quickly stiffening cock in his jeans with the anticipation that was growing relentlessly in his belly.

Dean shut off the Impala’s ignition and rolled his eyes when he saw Sam. “I said no, Sam!” he growled, wagging his finger in Sam’s face. “I told you I’m fucking tired!”

Sam nodded and gave him his best, most sincere puppy dog eyes. “You know you could let me drive some of the time and maybe you wouldn’t be.”

Dean’s face hardened into a scowl that held little heat. “Not happening.”

Sam splayed his hands out, palm up, in surrender. “Okay then.”

Dean eyed him for a second longer then pushed his way out of the car, stomping his way to the motel door with the number 25 on the front (how very fucking festive), the key held out in front of him. Sam followed suit, grabbing their shared duffle from the backseat and hitching it up over his shoulder. He stood behind Dean in the thickening snow as his big brother worked the key into the lock, leaning forward enough to press a searing kiss to the skin just below Dean’s right ear where he knew Dean was most sensitive.

 Dean shuddered and let out the softest moan Sam had ever heard and he suddenly knew Dean wasn’t as opposed to his idea as he had originally let on. Sam pressed his body up against Dean’s, his cock straining against the inside of his jeans, nudging against Dean’s ass impatiently, as he continued to mouth kisses to Dean’s neck. And as soon as Dean had finally gotten the door open, they tumbled inside, Sam chucking the duffle across the room and Dean turning to face him, already tugging his shirt up over his head.

Sam kicked the door shut and reached out to help Dean undress while Dean did the same for him.  And before he knew it, Sam was as naked as Dean was and he was pressing hot, frantic kisses across Dean’s freckled shoulders as he turned him toward the bed. Both breathed out rapid pants as Sam bent Dean over the mattress and spit into his palm, working Dean’s hole to a stretched, lax wetness within a matter of minutes.  He sunk his cock inside easily, with Dean’s body seemingly eager to pull him in. But even with all that preparation, Dean was still so damn tight.

Sam moaned and gave a few slow, shallow thrusts before Dean looked back at him over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

 “Let’s get the show on the road there, buddy,” he muttered.

Sam was only happy to oblige.

 His thrusts turned from slow, to rough to brutal and their breathless pants soon became ragged groans and growls and moans and finally hitching sighs as Sam took Dean _hard_ on that mattress, not stopping until they had both come twice.

 He couldn’t help the grin of pure male satisfaction that curled across his lips when Dean winced when he pulled away from Sam and they both fell down onto the bed, boneless and completely sated. He held up an arm, silently beckoning for Dean to curl up against him. Dean did just that without a word of protest, molding to Sam’s side like they were two puzzle pieces coming together, his cheek nuzzling against the anti-possession tattoo on Sam’s chest.

Dean had already started drifting off to sleep when Sam tightened his arm across Dean’s shoulder, pulling him closer to his side. “Merry Christmas, jerk,” Sam said.

Dean stirred for a moment and Sam could feel the curve of Dean’s smile against his skin, “M’ Christmas, bitch,” he murmured in reply a half a second before Sam himself fell asleep, content and full of a love he could never quite describe.  


	4. Day 4: Four Stitches

You wouldn’t think getting stitches would be some sort of weird, twisted erotic experience, but then again you wouldn’t be a Winchester, would you? In my thirty-six years on this planet, I have felt pain on an almost daily basis in some form or another on the scale from one all the way up to a whopping ten – believe me, I know fucking pain, okay? But trust me when I tell you that getting stitches is different. Like a whole ‘nother level different.

I guess it kind of depends on _who_ is stitching you back together, though. I’ve been stitched up by nurses, EMT’s, even my own goddamn _dad_. But when Sammy is fixing me up, it’s like, God I don’t even know how to describe it… it’s like a religious experience or something. I get off on it, and I am only just the littlest bit ashamed to admit that.

 Listen, I know there are those people that get piercings and tattoos and body modifications and whatever the hell else just for the sheer pain you get from it, but this isn’t the same, not really. It’s this feeling of being taken care of, of being put back together, of feeling his big ole’ calloused hands rasping real gentle across your skin, of his warm breath washing against you as he leans in close to make sure he’s doing a good job of it. _That_ is what I live for, what I fucking _crave_ in the most basic sense of the word.

Take this one time a couple years ago, Christmas fucking day, right? Me and Sammy were in Dodge City huntin’ a particularly feisty Kitsune, I mean this one was a damn _bitch_ to bring down, and I got swiped by the thing straight across my right bicep with its giant claws…. Ripped my favorite green flannel and everything, that son of a bitch.

Well once we finally got it put down, thanks to the unmatched knife skills of your truly, me and Sammy somehow got back in the Impala and all the way to our motel room without me bleeding out, even though that shit got all over the place. Do you have any idea how hard blood is to get out of clothes? Or Baby's leather seats?! Jesus, you have no idea how pissed I was.

But you wanna know the funny part? (which the whole thing was real fuckin hilarious, let me tell ya) After all that goddamn blood and Sammy freaking the hell out, once we got my shirt up over my head and Sam pulled away the makeshift bandage he'd put on, the gash wasn’t much more than a scratch! One and a half inches (Sam even measured it, that bastard) but that mother fucker bled like nothing else -- must've caught a vessel or something.

Anyhow, you should have seen Sam's face when he looked at it and saw how bad it _wasn't._ He lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree, which was appropriate because, hello? It was Christmas day? It was the relief that washed across his face, though, that made my chest feel all tight and tingly, cause I sincerely think he thought I might not survive this one.

So then he went and grabbed a warm wash rag and our “sewing kit” while I held the bandage back on it since I was still bleeding like a damn stuck pig, though it had started to clot somewhat.

And you know the only thing that made me feel better after all that? After fighting off a psychotic monster and getting my arm shredded by said monster (though it wasn't more than a scratch, as you know) and bleeding all over the fucking place _and_ losing my favorite shirt? The only thing, the only _goddamn thing_ , that made me feel better was the prospect of Sammy stitching me back together.

My pulse kicked up as I watched him walk back across the room toward me, which immediately made me feel even more light headed cause of all the blood I’d gone and lost. And then Sam knelt down in front of me where I was sitting at the foot of the bed and licked his lips real slow like he does when he's concentrating and I damn near passed out.

I took a deep breath to steady myself as he started cleaning my skin with the rag and then kept my eyes locked on him as he sanitized the cut with a cotton ball soaked in Wild Turkey Bourbon. Now, normally getting that kind of alcohol, or _any_ alcohol for that matter, in an open wound would sting like a sonuvabitch, but I hardly felt it at all; my focus was all on Sam. His eyes, his hair, his lips, his hands. _Fuck,_ those hands, with his long, long fingers moving with such grace as he threaded the curved suture needle and went to work. Those fingers alone had brought me to fucking soul-rending orgasm on more than one occasion. Those fingers could play me like a goddamn violin.

Pinch, pull, up, down. The needle moved quickly but efficiently, sewing me back together, making me whole again. But even though it was the needle and thread doing that to my skin, I knew that Sam was, and _is,_ the only one who can really do it to my body, my soul.

Sammy was just finishing knotting off the suture when my throat formed a groan before I even realized I had made a noise. He stopped moving immediately and drug his eyes to mine, trying to gauge my pain level I guess. His eyebrows knotted together in that way he has, like he’s wearing his heart on his goddamn sleeve for the whole world to see, and I was absolutely done for.

I brought my hand up, hooking my finger under his chin to bring his head level to mine and I leaned forward, taking his perfect lips with my mouth. His hands fell away from my arm and I could still feel the faint tickle of the suture line and needle brushing against my skin where they dangled down. Sam opened up to me at once, like a flower blooming in the sun, and I swept my tongue in as deep as it would go, kissing him like it was the first time even though it was more like the thousandth.

It went on like that for what seemed like forever, deep licks and hard presses of teeth and lips, pinch and pull. My hand eventually found his hair, stroking it back away from his face before fisting into the locks tightly. Sam moaned into my mouth and I ate up the sound with greed. I couldn’t get enough of him, and I still can’t, to this very day.

That kiss led to what it always does, a long night of give and take, up and down, pinch and pull, and me falling apart as always, under Sam’s skilled and loving hands. I still carry the scar from that Christmas day and it, along with the others scrawled on my skin, holds a special place in my heart as a time Sam has taken ahold of me and put me back together again.


	5. Day 5: Five Shots Too Many

“Merry Christmas, bro,” Dean said, holding up his spiked eggnog toward Sam.

A small smile made its way across Sam’s lips and he held his cup up too. “Yeah, here, Merry Christmas.”

They locked eyes for a moment as their cheap plastic cups tapped together, then they looked away again when they both took a drink. Sam glanced back at Dean in time to see him grimace as he swallowed and he nearly did the same in sympathy, knowing exactly how much rum he’d put in Dean’s drink. His own wasn’t as strong of course; the three shots he’d added was supposed to be something of a prank, like they _used_ to play on each other, just to lighten the mood a little. But the way Dean drank it down like he actually needed that much alcohol sent a pang of unease to Sam’s heart.

 The reason Sam didn’t want to celebrate Christmas that year hung heavy and unspoken between them. He understood Dean’s reasoning just fine, he knew Dean wanted to make the most of the time he had left, but Sam just didn’t need the reminder. He didn’t _want_ it. His chest felt tight and ached every time he even thought about there being a time when they wouldn’t be together. But if Dean wanted this, if Dean truly needed this night, then how could Sam possibly deny him that?

Taking a deep breath, he looked at his brother, the words he’d kept pushed down these last few months forming on his lips preemptively – _Hey, Dean,_ _I love you. Please don’t ever leave me._ But he bit them back instead, saying, “You feel like watching the game?”

Dean smiled immediately and answered with an overly bright “Absolutely.” And that was that. Sam flipped on the TV and they sat for about half a quarter in silence, pulling off sips of their eggnog.

Sam glanced at Dean when the ref on the TV blew his whistle for half-time and noticed that his cup was empty. He bent forward and grabbed the bottle of rum and carton of eggnog off the coffee table, shaking them lightly in Dean’s direction when he straightened.

“Want a refill?” he asked. What else but more booze would make this the perfect Winchester Christmas? Alcohol always seemed like buffer they both used, hell even their dad did, when he was still around. You could hide behind it, use it to numb the pain.

Dean swept his eyes over to Sam, and Sam could see that they were a little shiny, from unshed tears or just the glaze of inebriation settling in, he couldn’t be sure. “Yeah,” he said with a voice that had just a hint of being unsteady.

Sam blinked back the wetness gathering in his own eyes and swallowed around the hot lump forming in his throat. He forced a grin and nodded, splashing about a finger of rum into Dean’s glass. He was about to pour in the eggnog, but Dean nudged his chin toward the cup, motioning for more alcohol with a bunch ticking at the back of his jaw.

Sam obliged, pouring in what would have just about amounted to two and a half shots total. Along with what Sam had given him already, he was well on his way past five. Feeling the need to catch up, Sam gave himself an even more generous portion when he refilled his own glass. Topping each off with a scant splash of eggnog, Sam sat back his chair after they had tapped their cups together.

The second half of the game started and played out pretty much as the last quarter they watched had, with both silently watching the TV, but neither really paying any attention to what they were looking at. The tension in the room was palpable and Sam downed his drink quickly, reaching forward to pour himself another.

Dean suddenly stood, grabbing the rum out of Sam’s hand roughly. He put his mouth to the opening and threw his head back, guzzling straight from the bottle for a moment before he pulled it away and sputtered out a cough. He drew the back of his hand across his mouth and looked down at Sam still sitting in his chair.

“I can’t do this. Not tonight, Sam,” he rasped, shaking his head.

Sam stared up at him, his eyes lingering on a gleam of alcohol still slicking Dean’s bottom lip. _I love you, Dean. Please don’t ever leave me. “_ Do what, Dean?” he asked, blinking in confusion.

Dean scoffed out a harsh laugh and shook his head again. “This!” he said, voice nearing a shout. “Us sitting here and not saying anything!”

A flare of hurt burned through Sam’s chest and he pushed to his feet, causing Dean to take a wobbly step back. Sam was slightly unsteady too, chalking it up to the drinks, but he was able to stay upright. “What do you want me to say, Dean?” he cried, the backs of his eyes starting to burn with the salt of unshed tears.

Dean’s hands fisted at his sides and he swallowed visibly but he didn’t offer up any suggestions.

Sam stepped closer to him, crowding Dean’s space, with his chest heaving and his pulse thrumming loudly in his ears. Dean didn’t back down. “Alright, Dean, I’ll say it. I love you, okay? I am in love with you! Please don’t ever leave me!” Sam’s voice broke over the last few words and he felt a tear slip down his cheek. He scrubbed it away roughly waiting for Dean to say something, _anything._

Dean slumped his shoulders, the fight seemingly leaving him in the rush of a sigh. He stared up at Sam, his brows knitting together. Slipping his hands up behind Sam’s neck, he clasped his fingers together in the fine hairs there at the nape, and tugged him down. Sam went willingly, pressing his forehead against Dean’s and closing his eyes. His hands hung limp at his sides, trembling a bit with the anguish coursing through him. Dean was the other part of him that made him whole.  What would happen to him when Dean was gone? Who would he be then?

“Sammy,” Dean whispered hoarsely, cutting off the frantic thoughts in Sam’s mind before they could run away with him. “I love you, too. You know I do. With every damn broken piece of my heart. But I ain’t got a choice here. We hafta’ make the most of the time we do have, and I don’t want to spend it with us not saying anything. I can’t live like that. Okay?”

Sam nodded his head against Dean’s. He pulled back slowly. “Okay,” he said.

Dean gave Sam a trembling smile and thumbed away a tear that suddenly began tracking down his cheek. “What have I said about no chick flick moments?” he asked with a gruff, albeit watery, chuckle. He brushed a few wisps of hair back from Sam’s eyes. “We sound like those damn kids from The Fault in Our Stars.”

Sam cocked an eyebrow in disbelief and let out a weak laugh.

Dean gave him a harmless punch on his shoulder with a smirk. “I read, okay?”

Sam returned the punch. “Since when?”

“Since forever!” He ruffled Sam’s shaggy hair and started walking toward the bed they shared across the room. “Now how about we go lay down?”

Sam nodded quickly and followed with long strides. How could he say no to that? 


	6. Day 6: Six Pack Kind of Night

Dean glanced up from the laptop he'd been searching cases on to see Sam standing at the opposite end of the long table in the Men of Letters library room. Sam was holding something behind his back and smiling that little smile that always made Dean’s stomach give a somersault like he was on a rollercoaster; he knew that smile meant Sam had a secret. Intrigued, Dean pushed back from the table with a grin of his own that widened as Sam started stepping toward him.

Sam’s smile turned impish when he came to a stop right next to his brother. “I got you a Christmas present,” he said brightly.

Dean’s grin faltered momentarily. “I thought we said we weren’t exchanging gifts, Sam,” he said, putting on his best frown and knitting his eyebrows together.

“I know we said that, but after we found the tree and got it all decorated,” he began explaining and Dean’s gaze flicked to the festively lit blue spruce in the entryway they had picked out together at the tree lot down the street, “I just felt like I should get you a present.”

Sam shrugged and continued as he began pulling his hand out from behind his back. “I was in the Christmas spirit I guess.”

Dean’s eyes dropped from where he had been watching the graceful flow of emotions gliding across Sam’s face to see what he had been hiding.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, seeing that it was a six pack of Westvleteren 12, a beer whose rarity was renown worldwide. “Are you serious?”

Sam blushed and, after handing the sixer to Dean, he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I mean, it wasn’t easy to find. I had to practically sell my soul to get it.” Both boys let out a chuckle at that before Sam went on, “But I’ve really wanting to try it, so it’s kind of a present for both of us I guess.”

Dean looked back to the coveted six pack in his hands before nodding and standing up. He set the beer on the table and moved to stand in front of Sammy. “I got you a present too.”

Sam smiled and Dean’s heart melted. “Really?” Sam asked.

Dean shot him a wink and dropped his hands to his belt buckle. “Yeah, but it’s kind of a present for both of us,” he said coyly, “Want to unwrap it?”

Sam swallowed and nodded enthusiastically. He quickly reached out and brushed Dean’s hands away. His fingers made quick work of his belt and fly and Dean suddenly heard him gasp.

“These are for me?” Sammy asked in wonder, his eyes wide when he looked down to see the blue satin panties he was wearing. They were flecked with little shimmery snowflakes and hugged Dean in all the right places. He had known instantly as he walked by the lingerie shop and saw them in the window that they would be perfect for tonight.

Dean grinned, feeling a tight, heavy warmth settle low and insistent in his gut. “All yours, baby boy,” he said.

Sam immediately fell to his knees, tugging the waistband of his jeans down so he could get a proper look. Dean felt a cool breeze rush across his exposed skin and he shuddered. Sam’s hands were all over him, his fingers dragging across the smooth fabric, slipping past the elastic waistband reverently, touching every square inch of them as if he were not sure if this was a dream. His hands reached back and he groaned when he discovered that the undies were in fact a thong, with the barest strip of silky fabric slipped snuggly between Dean’s ass cheeks.

“Jesus, Dean,” he marveled. “So fuckin’ hot. I could just pull this to the side and fuck you right on this table here. Sink right in, like I couldn’t even wait one second longer to get these off of you.”

Dean felt his breath hitch in his chest and his hands instantly fell to Sam’s hair. His heart gave a kick against his ribcage and his blood pooled hot and thick in cock, filling it rapidly.

“But I have other ideas for now,” Sam said, his hands moving from where he had been kneading Dean’s ass. Dean almost whimpered, _almost._ “I think I’m going to suck this dick of yours until my name is all you can remember. This is a present for both of us, after all.”

Dean couldn’t even form the words for a reply. His brain seemed to have short circuited and Sam hadn’t even put his mouth on him yet. His thoughts revolved around one singular thought: _Sammy oh god, Sammy._

And then Sam tugged the panties to the side, spilling Dean’s plump and aching cock into his large and waiting hand.  Dean bit his bottom lip between his teeth to stifle the groan he could feel rising in his throat.

Sam wasted no time in taking Dean’s entire length in his mouth in one graceful and shattering swallow. Dean tightened the grip he had in Sam’s hair, his hips thrusting forward instinctively. Sam moaned in appreciation and Dean could feel the vibrations of the sound shiver up his whole body. He huffed out a ragged pant and began moving his hips with a more fluid give and take once Sam snaked his hands around to Dean’s ass cheeks again, helping him to set the pace.

It did not take long for Dean to feel the quick build of his approaching orgasm. The fact that he had been wearing the panties all day for Sam and the goddamn exquisite feel of his mouth sliding wet and hot around his cock all combined together to bring him to the very cusp of completion. And then one of Sam’s hands cupped Dean’s balls and tugged down, gently but firmly, and Dean was done for.

He cried out Sam’s name, fisting his hands in Sammy’s hair and pushing his cock in as deep as he could, getting a welling and heated sense of pure male satisfaction when Sam gagged. But Sam didn’t back off even then, he kept sliding his tongue all along Dean’s shaft until Dean was coming hard, all down the back of Sam’s throat.

Dean immediately sank down, boneless and spent, curling himself into Sam’s lap. He nuzzled against Sam’s sweaty neck, pulling in a deep breath of Sam’s skin. “This was one of the best Christmases we’ve ever had,” he rasped, fighting for breath.

He felt the rumble of Sam’s chuckle and then Sam’s arms were coming up to draw him closer. “You have no idea how much I agree with that,” he replied.


	7. Day 7: Seven Minutes in Heaven

 Christmas Day, last year. The boys had decided to bring Cas on a hunt to remove a ghost from a house in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. It hadn’t been snowing that night, but the wind was whipping like a sonofabitch, dropping the temperature to below freezing with the wind chill.

Dean ordered Cas to keep watch at the car and to come in for back up if they weren’t back in twenty minutes. Cas agreed readily and cranked the heat up in the Impala as he waited the predetermined amount of time in the comfort of the heated vehicle.

 Upon entering the empty house, via Sam’s impeccable lock-pick skills, the two boys soon discovered that it wasn’t a ghost that was menacing the homeowners of the old Victorian era house, but a squatter that had been hiding in the attic and coming down to steal food unbeknownst to the family. Sam and Dean chased the man through the hallways and up two flights of stairs, gaining on him until they lost track of him in the study on the top floor.

Sam glanced around, as baffled as Dean looked, shining his flashlight into every corner. He finally spotted an out of place looking brass candleholder on the mantle of the fireplace, decorated with garland and ridiculously expensive looking stockings.

He nodded toward it and Dean followed his gaze. Words did not even need to pass between them for how in tuned they had become with one another, in every way imaginable. Sam knew they were looking at some sort of secret passageway and stepped forward with silent strides. Dean came to stand beside him, shooting Sam a gaze of absolute trust. Sam pulled the candleholder and immediately fumbled his flashlight to the ground when the two were suddenly spun around within the wall they were just standing in front of in some weird, real-life parody of a Scooby-Doo episode.

The dark enclosure they found themselves in didn’t seem to have any other door leading out though and Sam started to panic a little. The man they were perusing must have taken another route and threw them off his trail; they had fallen for his trap.

But Dean was suddenly standing before him in the dark. Even though Sam could not see him, he knew each shape and curve of Dean’s body and was acutely aware of the feel of him pressing in close.

“How’re we gonna get out of here, Dean?” he asked, his voice suddenly rushed and trembling slightly.

Dean’s hands were pushing up the front of Sam’s shirt, rubbing comforting circles over his chest. “Shh, Sammy. It’s okay. Cas is going to come looking for us here in seven minutes, not a minute more or less -- you know how punctual he is. I think I have an idea of how we can help take your mind off of the wait.”

Sam couldn’t see Dean’s face in that darkness but he could envision the wink that followed that sentence. “Okay,” he acquiesced, letting out his nervously pent up breath.

“Ever heard of seven minutes in heaven?” Dean asked softly, still rubbing circles over Sam’s chest.

Sam nodded, chuckling a little. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Dean said. His lips, a welcome warmth in the cold, were suddenly pressing against Sam’s.

Sam got with the picture in an instant and suddenly their hands were all over each other and they were sharing saliva and each other’s breath like they were in middle school all over again. The small enclosure captured their moans and bounced them back, the sound echoing down into Sam’s core. He petted and pawed at Dean, entirely forgetting the tiny and cloistered room they were in.

And before he knew it, they were being swung back into the study room. Cas was standing there, holding out Sam’s flashlight toward him, a slightly perplexed look on his face as he took in the disheveled state of the brothers.

Dean brushed by Sam with a chuckle, clapping Cas on the shoulder as he made his way out of the room. “Your heaven ain’t got nothin’ on mine,” he said smugly.

Sam burst out laughing when the expression on Cas’ face went from perplexed to completely dumbfounded.


	8. Day 8: V-8 Engine

“Sammy! What the _fuck_ did you put on my car?”

Sam winces with a grin when he hears Dean hollering at him all the way from the garage in the bunker. He’s in the kitchen microwaving two mugs of hot cocoa, the kind with the little marshmallows he knows Dean loves best, and takes his time finishing this task. He expected Dean’s reaction when he tinkered with Baby without Dean’s knowledge when his big brother had been napping earlier and so isn’t really surprised, though he thought Dean might have not noticed so soon.

Grabbing up the mugs, Sam makes his way toward the garage. He can practically _hear_ Dean fuming before he nudges the door open with his hip. And indeed, Dean _is_ fuming. His back is to Sam, staring at Baby with a wrench tightly gripped in his right hand. His whole body is ridged. Sam can’t help but admit to himself that Dean’s stance is turning him on.

Sam comes to a stop next to Dean and takes a look at his handy work, pulling of a sip of his cocoa. Baby is festively adorned with two reindeer antlers sticking out of the passenger and driver side windows and she’s wearing a red ball on her grill to represent Rudolph’s nose. Sam thought it was all hilarious when he saw the package at the auto parts store that morning and he still does. It is Christmas and Sam decided Baby needed to get in the spirit of the season too.

Sam chuckles and turns his head to look at Dean, passing him his mug of hot chocolate. Dean glares at him but grabs the cup and takes a sip, scowling at Sam over the rim of the mug. After he has taken a long drink, he is quiet for a moment, studying Sam.

“Mind explaining what the hell this is?” Dean asks, his voice low, motioning with the wrench toward his car.

Sam smiles and shrugs. “I wanted to get Baby in a holiday mood.”

Dean rolls his eyes and sets his cocoa to the side, starting to walk toward the car to dismantle the decorations, but Sam continues, “That wasn’t the only thing I did to her. Gave her a full tune up for you, Dean. New sparkplugs, coolant flush, changed the oil.”

Dean turns back to his brother slowly and Sam can’t really tell what that expression is.

“This is a precision machine, Sam,” he warns. 

“I know that. I learned how to help take care of her from the best, Dean,” Sam replies, shooting him a wink. “Merry Christmas.”

Dean turns back to the car, popping the hood to supposedly double check that Sam didn’t fuck anything up. Sam comes to stand next to him, pulling off a sip of his quickly cooling hot chocolate, and watches as Dean glances over the big V-8 engine block. Dean’s fingers get covered in residual grease and engine grime very fast as he reverently drags them across the hoses and wires spilling from Baby’s heart. Sam’s pulse ratchets up suddenly as he watches Dean’s hands, almost feeling that Dean is dragging his fingers across his own skin.

Dean turns back to Sam, seemingly satisfied, judging by the gleam of admiration shining in his beautiful green eyes. He cups a hand around Sam’s elbow and yanks him in close for a kiss. It’s pleasantly unexpected and Sam skins into it, his knees going weak. Dean smells of engine grease and sweat and tastes of chocolate and a hint of peppermint and it all combines to create an explosion of sensations that is wholly Dean.    

They part after a moment to gasp for breath. “So I did good?” Sam broaches.

Dean nods, smiling up at Sam with his pupils swallowing up the green of his irises and his lips swollen and kiss-bruised. “Yeah,” he pants.

“And what about the antlers? Are you gonna keep them on the car?” Sam asks, but he pretty much already knows the answer to that one.

“Hell no,” Dean replies quickly and pulls Sam in for another kiss before his little brother can protest.


	9. Day 9: Nine Inches

“No freakin’ way,” Dean said under his breath with a little chuckle as he stared at the laptop screen before him. He had been looking through the local newspaper online for anything of note hunt-wise, and had somehow found his way to the forecast page. It gave an overview of the total accumulation of snow since the night before, Christmas Eve, up until that morning. Seemed as though a cold front had come through and dumped an unexpected amount of it. The headline was what Dean really found hilarious, though.

_Winter Blast Pounds Missoula with Nine Inches._

Sitting back in his chair at the small table in the motel, Dean held his stomach and laughed and laughed. He couldn’t get over it. _Pounds. With nine inches._ It was like the title out of a shitty dirty movie on Cinemax.

Sam’s voice could suddenly be heard from the bathroom. “What’s so funny?” he called.

Steam was still filtering out of the open door and Dean knew Sam must be just about done shaving. Dean smirked, already forming a plan. “Get ready for me to pound you with nine inches, baby boy!” he answered, standing and rummaging through his duffle bag next to his bed for his gloves and scarf.

 He bundled up as best he could and was out the motel door before Sam had even popped his head out of the bathroom to ask him if he meant what Sam thought he meant. Kneeling beside the Impala in the parking lot as a perfect cover, he formed as many snowballs as quickly as he could, his breath fogging before him in rapid clouds in his excitement.

Sam came out the door sooner than Dean thought he would have, in nothing more than his jeans, an old, worn t-shirt, and his socks. His hair was still wet from his shower but Dean took no pity. He peeked up from the front fender and pelted Sam with a snowball dead-center of his chest.

Sam’s eyes were wide for a fraction of a second in disbelief before they narrowed into dangerous hazel slits.

“Told ya I was gonna pound you, Sammy!” Dean exclaimed, sinking back behind the car.

“Oh, you are _so_ dead!” Sam yelled back. The motel door slamming shut loudly surprised Dean and he inched up over the hood to see that Sam had retreated back into the room.

Dean used the time to create more ammo, using up the mounds and mounds of snow available to him as an unlimited arsenal. The sound of the door opening again told Dean that it was time to put his game face on. He looked over the Impala in time to see Sam, bundled in a coat, beanie, boots and gloves, do an evasive roll behind the car two parking spaces to the right.

“Your fancy moves aren’t gonna save you this time,” Dean said, launching a snowball blindly, grenade style up and over, hoping he’d hit Sam.

“Oh you son of a _bitch_!” Sam cried.

Dean grinned to himself, gathering up another snowball. He cautiously looked up over the hood and was instantly nailed right in the damn head.

“How do you like taking my balls right to the _face?”_ Sam chuckled.

Dean scowled and brushed the snow from his hair. It was _so_ on. Gathering up an armful of snowballs, he vaulted himself over the Impala’s hood like Bo Duke and began his assault. Sam did the same, rounding the car he’d been sheltering behind and then it was all out war. Hard pack snow flew back and forth across the parking lot, dusting the air in a fine powder of crystals shimmering in the early morning sun.

Both brothers were covered in wet snow, panting from exertion, their cheeks rosy from the cold. They ended up wrestling in the now dirty hard pack beneath them after Sam decided to dump a handful of it down the back of Dean’s coat and didn’t stop until they were fairly exhausted and Dean said he couldn’t feel his toes anymore.

They agreed it was time to head back inside for another shower, as hot as they could stand it, just to warm up and Sam conceded that he would be the one to call to order Chinese as an apology to Dean for shoving snow down his back. But only on the condition that Dean would suck him off after lunch as a prize since he had so clearly won their impromptu snowball fight. Dean had been planning on giving him head anyway, but agreed, saying he had let Sam win just because he was his little brother.

After a nap on their shared bed, they both bundled up and did it all again in the failing light of that Christmas Day’s sunset, making the most of those nine inches before it all disappeared.


	10. Day 10: Ten Years

Ten years we’ve been at this, Dean. Can you believe it? I know you would look at me and say, “Sammy, we’ve been doin’ this shit since we were kids” and you would be right. But I’m not counting those years, Dee, I’m counting the years since it’s just been you and me and that long stretch of open road before us.

I used to hate that road. I don’t know if you ever really knew how much. I _hated_ it back then. That road took me away from the normalcy of college, that road almost took away your _life_ when we were run down by that Semi on that godforsaken highway in Missouri; the road beat us down so many damn times, Dean.

But that road also saved me, in more ways than I can even count anymore. It keeps me grounded, keeps me humble –don’t you feel that way too? Here it is, another Christmas night on the road with you. These last ten years haven’t been easy on us. They hang on our faces and in the creak of our joints. I can see the months adding up in the faint little lines creasing out from your eyes and mine too.

I wouldn’t change it though, Dean. I wouldn’t change any of it for the whole goddamn world because it has all brought us here, to this moment; you in the driver’s seat and me beside you with the snow flying toward the windshield like we’re passing warp-speed through galaxies together –always together.

This is our tenth Christmas on the road, just us. Did you know that? It seems so long when I think back because we’ve been through so much, but really it has gone by so fast, in the blink of an eye. I’m selfish sometimes because I want you forever and I know the time we have together won’t last that long.

“Ten Years Gone” by Zep comes on the radio and you start singing at the top of your lungs as we drive through the snowy dark. I don’t know if you grasp the importance of that pure coincidence when these thoughts are on my mind. Who am I kidding? You probably know.

I smile and reach my hand across the bench seat and grab yours. You look at me with a grin as you twine your fingers with mine and you continue belting out the lyrics;

_ I’m never gonna leave you _

_ I’m never gonna leave _

_ Holding on, ten years gone. Ten years gone, holding on, ten years gone. _

I sing along, just as loudly as you. We both know the words well. This music was a lullaby of ours, so how would we not know every single sentence?

Your hand grips mine tighter as the song fades out and we exchange a glance that speaks volumes. What’s left unsaid, what we communicate silently, echoes just as poignantly down into my heart as if you’d spoken them aloud.

Yeah, you know. Just like I knew you would. 


	11. Day 11: Eleven Hours Straight

Sam awoke with a start when he felt the Impala go over a dip in the pavement. He sat up, blinking his bleary eyes, and looked out the passenger window. The sun was just starting to crest the horizon, blinding in its brilliance but lending no real warmth to the frozen, snow-covered fields that flew by.

Sam quickly sat up in his seat and looked at his watch. “It’s seven?” he asked, looking over at Dean accusingly. “I told you to wake me up at four so we could switch places!”

They’d been driving for hours, eleven in fact once Sam did the math, and Dean had pretty much done all of it. Sam had started out on this trip driving last night, surprised down to his bones when Dean had allowed it. But Sam had quickly become fatigued though because of the fact that he’d been up going on almost 20 hours; they both had.

Sam wished he could say the lack of sleep was from a marathon round of sex but in all reality fighting a gang of Rugarus had been the thing that had kept them up that whole time. The chase they were on now, driving over state lines and pushing almost half a day of driving was because two of the bastard monsters, from the initial gang of eight, had been leading them on a chase that the brothers were determined to put an end to before more lives were lost, especially on Christmas day.

Dean had seen the exact moment when Sam first started rubbing his eyes somewhere around the Kansas border yesterday and ordered him back in the passenger seat, promising that he’d wake him after a few hours so they could switch.

And now here they were, way more than halfway to their destination with Dean having done way more than his fair share.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam asked, still awaiting an answer.

Dean glanced over at him and shrugged. “You needed your sleep,” he said.

Sam could see the bloodshot state of his eyes and knew Dean was pushing the limits of his alertness. “Pull over, it’s my turn. _You_ need to sleep,” he demanded.

Dean shook his head, “I got this, baby boy. Besides, I’m not even tired.”

Sam folded his arms across his chest, narrowing his eyes. It was so obvious Dean was exhausted, it wasn’t even funny. But he was gonna be stubborn about this, like everything else in his life.

Smiling to himself, Sam suddenly thought of a surefire way for Dean to admit he was tired; he knew Dean always got really drowsy after blow jobs.

 Inching his way across the bench seat, Sam reached his hand forward, rubbing slow circles over Dean’s thigh before dipping it down between his legs to cup his package. Dean throat bobbed visibly as he swallowed but he kept his eyes on the road.

Sam grinned and slowly unzipped Dean’s jeans. Dean gasped and tightened his grip over the steering wheel when Sam fished his already hardening cock from his opened fly. Licking his lips and locking his eyes with Dean’s for one breathtaking moment, Sam curled his body forward and took Dean into his mouth.

He swirled his tongue around the velvety soft head of Dean's cock, gathering up the salty fluid that gathered there before loosening his jaw and swallowing down Dean's length in one go.

Feeling Dean shudder gave Sam a feeling of satisfaction that he couldn't ever describe. It was bliss, pure and simple.

 And then Dean's hand was suddenly in Sam's hair, tangling in the long strands pushing and pulling him up and down his cock. Sam was happy to let Dean set the pace and did his best to apply suction and drag his tongue across the throbbing flesh crowding his mouth.

Dean's breath was suddenly coming in faster and faster pants and Sam knew he was close. He grasped a fist around the base of Dean’s cock, twisting in the opposite direction his mouth was moving up the shaft and that was all it took.

“Oh, Sammy. Fuuck!” Dean grunted, fisting his hand in Sam's hair almost hard enough to make it hurt.

Sam moaned appreciatively, pulling off just enough so he could feel the warm spurts of Dean's come as it splashed across his tongue.

Swallowing down Dean's taste, Sam sat back up, helping tuck Dean back in his pants. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered, kissing Dean on his stubbly cheek.

Dean muttered a sleepy reply, stifling a yawn. “You know, Sammy. I think I'm gonna let you take a turn driving now.”

Sam chuckled, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. Works every time, he thought to himself.

“Whatever you say, Dean,” he said with a laugh as Dean started pulling the car to the snow covered shoulder of the road.


	12. Day 12: Midnight

It has become something of a tradition for them, sharing a kiss at midnight every Christmas eve. After all these years, after all they have been through. No matter what, they share a kiss.

Even if they're both bruised and bloody, even if it's between the bars of two jail cells, even if they are in a room full of nightmarish monsters that are about to pull them limb from limb. If it's midnight and if it's Christmas eve, then nothing will stop them.

But tonight it’s easier. Tonight they've been sitting in front of the fireplace in one of the lounge areas Dean found in the Men of Letters Bunker. They're nice and toasty warm from the fire raging before them and toasty warm overall because of the special bottle of Jameson they are sharing. Snow is falling silently outside and for once the world is in some modicum of peace and is not crying for the Winchesters to come save it.

A clock starts chiming the midnight hour from somewhere in the bunker and Sam pulls Dean to his feet. He drags him to the doorway that leads out to the hall both of them chuckling from a little too much alcohol and so much contentment washing through them from just being here, together.

Sam points up and Dean’s chuckles turn into an all out snort of delighted disbelief. Above them is a sprig of mistletoe that Sam had strategically placed there earlier.

Dean gives Sam his biggest, most heart-melting smiles and Sam returns it with one of his own. And then they come together, their bodies fitting together perfectly, their lips meeting like they have done for years.

They share a kiss full of promise and love on the twelfth stroke of midnight. Because it's a tradition, after all, and it’s one neither of them would ever miss or forget, come hell or high-water, even though they've been through both. Because even if they have nothing left in their lives, they at least have each other…and a kiss at midnight on Christmas Eve.


End file.
